


Those Tomorrows Waiting Deep In Your Eyes

by BethNoir



Series: The Shards of Ice [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Awkward First Times, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Laughter, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 22:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18787939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BethNoir/pseuds/BethNoir
Summary: A re-write of That Scene from 8.04





	Those Tomorrows Waiting Deep In Your Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> I'm enjoying season eight, but I thought Jaime and Brienne deserved a little more tenderness and fun. This was going to be longer, but I'd rather have something finished than perfect. Title from "What Are You Doing The Rest Of Your Life" because I am unimaginative. Wrote this so I could get it out of the way and finish some real life writing. Playing fast and loose with present tense and sentence fragments but IDGAF. We're here for the mood.

“You’ve never been in love.”

She’s several glasses in and the sentence drops like a stone through all that wine, taking her drunkenness with it. What’s worse is that Jaime knows she’s sobered up at the statement, but Tyrion pressing on somehow isn’t as terrible.

“You’ve remained an impervious fortress of nobility because your heart has never been moved by any man. Or woman!”

“Tyrion…” Jaime starts.

“I should say romantic love. Not fililal love or paternal love. Real, true, romantic love. The stuff that cuckolds your cockles and humors your humours because there is one particular person who makes you swoon. I stand by my claim. Brienne of Tarth has never been in love. She finds it unbecoming and vulgar and she has never partaken in the stuff. What say you, Ser?”

There is a long, ugly pause. She should be looking at him with that stone cold fury she can cast so well that makes men shiver, like the Night King’s winds of winter. Instead it’s warm, patient, patronizing. She’s held herself only to her rules and defied all the ones set by others.

So of course, she doesn’t drink. She sets her glass down, and with a simple, “my lords…”, she leaves the room.

She hears someone stop Tormund’s attempt to make the situation worse. It’s only when she leaves the hall, away from the noise of the living that she hears the footsteps behind her.

But she makes it to her room. Has time to change out of her leathers. To sit and wonder if he’s going to knock already, or if it was someone else entirely. If they’re still sitting and drinking and maybe feeling guilty for making a mockery of her, but nothing important enough to care too much about for longer than a minute.

For goodness’ sake, she defeated the Hound in single combat, survived the Long Night, and is the first lady knight of the Seven Kingdoms. She can confront a slight in conversation.

Except someone knocks.

Brienne stands and swings the door open and nothing in the world could prepare her for Jaime Lannister, flush from drink and fire and nerves, standing at her door and looking like he’s going to vomit on her doorstep.

“I wanted to apologize – my brother…” he should know how to say this, but he concludes with, “sorry, I’m drunk”

“It’s perfectly all right,” she says, and he rolls his eyes.

“Oh don’t do that.”

“What?”

“That noble, knight of the Vale and Riverlands and the whatsit-lands-“

“And the Sapphire Isles. How drunk are you?

“Can I come in?” he asks.

She rolls her eyes and opens the door. He just wants to talk. And he could not look less becoming as he almost trips over the threshold, and lurches into the room. Of course it’s neat and orderly. She never served in an army, but she knows how to keep the place clean, even without Pod’s help.

The door closes. Now he’s here. This has to mean something. He’s never felt more nervous in his life. The moment before his hand was cut off. Tyrion’s trial by combat. A failed mission into and out of Dorne. Leaving King’s Landing only to be greeted by the survivor of his most hideous act of violence. Somehow he is still alive and the fear of this is worse than the eve of battle.

Because this means something new. It’s a gamble on something different. Maybe even happiness. Does he even deserve such a thing?

“Did you come to get me to drink for not agreeing or disagreeing in the game?” she asks. Jaime puts the jug of Dornish wine down and doesn’t touch it.

“No.” He mumbles. And points at a chair with his eyebrows up to ask. She nods and he sits. She takes the seat beside him.

“What is it then?” she asks. He sighs.

“Much as I hate saying this,” Jaime says, “if there’s one thing I learned a long time ago, it’s not anybody’s business.”

A long time ago, Brienne would have made a remark or a face, but she smiles softly. She understands every meaning of what he says, but doesn’t cast judgment. Gods, does she really think he’s here to defend _her_?

“That’s not what I meant,” he says.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

She looks at him, patient, friendly, kind. “I trust you.”

“Drink.”

She bursts out laughing, and he finds himself laughing with her. She’s flushed from drink and the fires, but not yet sweaty. She's all pale eyelashes, bright eyes, and it makes him smile in a way he never did with Cersei.

“Renly,” she says. And it takes Jaime a moment to realize she’s continuing the game.

“Really?”

“Before I knew. What every girl thinks they can do. ‘Surely I’m the one to break the spell.’” She waits for Jaime to say something. There are no remarks. He’s fascinated with what she has to say. So she continues. “But he did love me. Dearly. And knowing I had his friendship and respect meant the world. Meant I wasn’t entirely hideous when people looked at me. Even if it was a chaste love.”

“You’re certainly not hideous.”

“Really? ‘That’s a woman?’” she slurs, and laughs again as Jaime buries his face in his hands.

“I’m deeply,” he cringes, “…deeply ashamed-“

“I know.”

A long, soft pause where they just look at each other. She’s glad he’s there, but all her life experience has her uncertain of what should come next. It would be kinder to let him leave.

“It’s late,” she says. Of course she’s going to be responsible and keep this courteous. He doesn’t want to put her off. The whole point of coming back was to make sure he correct his brother's behavior.

“Right.”

He stands and lets her walk him to the door. He opens it, steps out to leave, then turns.

“Do you want me to go?” he asks, and clarifies, “…or need me to go?”

She hesitates. She resents him for even putting the thought in her head. She stands up straight.

“I shouldn’t keep you up if have duties in the morning.” Of course she’s being responsible. The battle is won, the war south continues, they all have work to do. Jaime’s offended she’s reminded him of sobriety and trying to gently nudge him out of the haze of drink and heat and confusion he’s stewing in, which feels so much nicer than the dread of tomorrow.

“If you think most the castle isn’t going to be turning in late tonight and turning up hung tomorrow,” he makes a broad gesture, and doesn’t know how to end his thought. He decides on, “everyone’s sleeping late tomorrow.”

Nothing. She looks as impervious as ever. The nerve. The nerve! But she does step forward to kiss him on the cheek in parting.

And doesn’t expect him to turn his head, so her lips are on his. Soft with beaded sweat above her lip and his beard grazing her cheek and chin. She thought she was in control of the situation.

She startles, head pulls back a little, unsure of what he’s playing at. And Jaime’s so relieved to be so close to her he’s fine if she hits him because all he wants is to put his mouth against hers again to make up for all the times he never did before.

He certainly wasn’t expecting her to wrap her hands around his head to kiss him more fiercely. Why is his hair damp and probably smelling? They all bathed before the funerals, but the burning bodies have crept into the crevices of the stones and the fiber of their clothes. He must smell awful. How can she want to kiss him when he looks and smells so awful?

She stops kissing him. That’s much worse than any uncertain thought in his head, the certainty of her stopping.

“What?” she sounds almost annoyed.

“Are you sure?” Jaime wonders, still startled this worked at all.

“You kissed me!” she snaps.

“SHhh!” Jaime hisses and they start laughing again, his good hand gripping the string on her shirt so he doesn’t fall over.

Voices start from somewhere in the hallway and Jaime half-pushes and Brienne half-pulls him into her room, slamming the door too loud and laughing too much. Jaime’s scrunched against the wall, his chest clenching from laughter and his head hurting from drink and everything is too damn hot.

She’s so much taller than him. It’s so much harder to swagger when someone’s taller than you, and so much more so when you’re suddenly turned on by the idea of subjugation. And she never would treat him that way, would she? At least never outside of a work day. And now in the privacy of her room, she’s all smiles and soft looks and how could she ever have been mocked for her first loves in her heart or in her bed? Because Jaime’s not so sure he’s ever felt this way before either.

Maybe it needed to happen now. Any day or month or year earlier and she would have been sure this was an elaborate game. The wound needed to heal completely. He’s looking at her too fondly, his eyes too clear, his smile too wide, and breathing too deeply as he will not look away from her.

“I don’t know why you’re so shy. I’ve no idea what I’m doing,” Brienne teases.

“I’ll tell you what,” he murmurs, “I’m not exactly sure what this is supposed to be like either.”

“You had three children, how could-“ and it’s the wrong thing to say from the pained look on his face. He can’t even bring himself to do anything but raise his good hand and clench his eyes to push the thought out.

“Just…” gods, he really is drunk and desperate but he needs her to understand this, “just let me be with you.”

And bless her, she understands. She nods, and kisses him, gently. He’s never felt safer.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Won’t say another word.”

“Well, don’t do that. I want to hear you speak.”

“Good, because how do you do the knots on this?” she grumbles. It’s his other hand.

“Have to use my teeth a lot,” he grins and tries biting the straps on it.

“Oh for pity’s sake,” she laughs and tries digging at the knots with her short nails.

“Well, get my trousers, that’s more important,” he says.

“What’s the rush?” she smirks.

She expects the banter to continue as she gets the straps undone on his other hand. She doesn’t expect him to lean against her leg. It’s something she always associated as an act of violence from crude boys and worse men. But from Jaime, who’s lazily kissing her jaw, just to say he likes her and wants her to keep talking, the hardness pressed against her means something better when it’s him.

“Just don’t want to disappoint you,” he murmurs.

“I’ll be sure to tell you,” she says.

“Oh, I know you will, but…” he invites himself to put his hand on her waist; a first dance of another kind. She likes how it fits so neatly into her side, like it was always meant to be there, “…I should warn you that I am old and drunk and my current condition is want to pass, so it’s entirely possible nothing may come of this tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“I don’t have anywhere else to be.”

And he wants to be here. Brienne kisses him with a hunger, and he clutches her face with desperation, accidentally poking her in the cheek.

“Oomf-“

“Sorry.”

“Not very good with that left hand, are you?” she grins, as she unfastens his trousers.

“I’ve practiced,” he protests, “maybe had to think of you now and then for help.”

“Now and then?” She asks.

“…often.” He admits.

He keeps expecting something he says to startle her, disgust her, make her recoil and send him out of the room with his trousers around his ankles as revenge for embarrassing her earlier. Instead it makes her grin and her eyes dilate and her hands slip into his trousers.

“Oh gods…” he moans, wet hair and hot breath on her neck in an already stifling room. She doesn’t dare go deeper than his hips. She’s afraid she might break him.

“Can you do something for me?” she asks.

“Anything…”

She grins.

“Push me.”

“What?” Jaime’s brought out of the moment, thinking someone has told her something. That the Stark lord has told his sisters and that’s made it to Brienne and this is some strange revenge on him, but she rolls her eyes with an embarrassed smile.

“Like in the stories,” she explains. “I’m too tall, no-one…never mind.”

“Oh.” Jaime grins. And pushes her on the bed. Where she smacks her head against the headboard.

“OW!”

“AAH!”

Jaime lunges for her and grabs the back of her head, but she’s laughing. He presses his lips against her brow, like that makes it better. And it does. She’s still laughing.

“Not often enough,” she says, and now Jaime’s laughing too hard, leaning on hand and stump over her as any tension has left the room and all that’s left is mirth.

Brienne lets her head fall back on the bed. She’s sore, but so’s the rest of her after all the fighting of the night. She was swamped by waves of dead, and then his face appeared like the sun they thought they’d never see. There was life with him. Who else would finally let her be a woman instead of some sexless paragon of honor. Of course he knows she has wandering thoughts too.

“What?” he asks.

“I forgot you’ve already seen me naked.”

He grins and kisses her, clutching her lower lip in his teeth for a moment, just to enjoy the taste of her.

“Get my shirt, would you?” he asks. Brienne obliges and pulls it by the collar, then the hem over his head. He’s not all muscle and sinew like she imagined he’d still be. He’s softer, with a belly and rows of chest hair turning grey. There’s something rather fun about getting him naked first. But she doesn’t give him a moment and pulls her shirt off without an invitation.

He looks fit to pass out.

Brienne pulls him closer to her, to feel the hair on his chest against her breasts, and the weight of his body on hers. To hold his face in her hands and kiss him through the damp, thick hairs of his beard and the smell of his body, and the weight of him against her and what’s still hard.

“…oh, fuck…” he moans.

“Don’t fall asleep on me yet, old man,” she grins.

“Right, that’s it.” Jaime clambers off the bed to her protestations, but only to yank her boots off.

“Oh, don’t, I can manage,” she insists, but her boots are off, and the stockings with them. The pair left in nothing but their trousers.

“I think I will have a cup,” she says.

Jaime nods and goes to the jug. Brienne reclines on the bed and enjoys the view of what he must look like under what’s left of his clothes. Was sex always this awkward with starting and stopping and taking an age to get to the act? But it is awfully nice to have an evening to be lazy in the company of someone who truly likes you, with no expectations. She watches his muscles move, the shape of his trousers around his ass and thighs, and how it’s all for her.

Brienne shoves her trousers down her thighs, off her legs, and throws them at him. Jaime turns with a smirk, only to be startled at the sight of her, completely naked.

“I wanted to do that,” he complains.

“You don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow,” she says.

“I don’t, do I?” he says, handing her the cup.

“Do it then,” she says. She drinks and hands the cup back to him. He puts it on the sidetable.

“If I drink, I won’t be up until noon.”

“We’re done playing, then?” She asks.

He’s standing over her. They’ve known each other for years. Missed each other for some of that time, but here they finally were.

Brienne reaches up and peels his trousers down his thighs, over his knees, and lets them fall to the floor. She doesn’t want him standing a moment longer, and holds his right shoulder up as he kneels onto the bed. It’s all so nervous again. She can’t bring herself to touch him.

“Often, was it?” she asks.

“All the time, in fact,” Jaime confesses.

“How’s your vision?” She waves a hand in front of him.

“Fuck off,” he laughs, and they kiss again.

In the privacy of rooms around the castle are couples long committed and recently met matches, the lonely hearts, friends in song, and those who want a good night’s sleep. The Long Night was over and the living were making a racket in celebration and mockery of the God of Death. They ate and drank and fucked for the living and in grief for the dead. And all the noise was a shield of privacy for two lovers, long separated, finally joined together.

He’s not as old or as drunk as he warned, and she no less awkward in her inexperience. The joy of company was enough.

Jaime leans over to crack a window open. Just a sliver to let in a breath of air and maybe some of the grinding heat of the fireplaces out. It helps him breathe.

Brienne is rolled over on her back, breathing deeply and blankets kicked to the floor. Her body flush and sweaty and the wounds of yesterday still mending.

“You all right?” He asks.

“I thought it was supposed to hurt.” She sighs, but not dissatisfied. Definitely satisfied. “You hear all this talk about how much it’s going to hurt and it’s a pain to endure but…”

“What?”

“Not sure I’ll be able to walk for the rest of the week,” she grins, and they’re laughing again.

“Well, it hurts if you don’t like who you’re with, and if they don’t know what they’re doing…” he grins at her, “you’re welcome.”

She swats at him and they burst into giggles again. He wraps his arms around her and rests his head on her chest, not only to be near her breasts, but to hear the laughter in her ribs. He finds more freckles, scars, skin tears; marks that have a story he wants the time to hear. And the reminder of time grips him in a panic at how much time he’s wasted, until he feels her hand on his head.

“What is it?”

He hesitates. Takes several long breaths.

“Talk to me,” she says, kind, patient, fingers gently grazing through his wet locks of hair. He can’t bring himself to look at her.

“Didn’t know it was supposed to be fun.” He admits, shameful. “Not angry, not vengeful, not seditious.” He shrugs to hide the shame of learning so late in life something that should be so obvious, like the sea is wet or the sky is vast.

Her chest tilts. He finds himself sitting up alongside her, waiting for some kind of admonishment of how he should be sensible. Instead she just holds his head in her hands and kisses him gently. The way he should have been for so long.

“Stay,” she says.

She falls asleep with their fingers laced together, only after more talking and laughing and soft, lazy, sleepy kisses. And all the fear rattles around his head of what could happen now if Cersei knows. How there’s always a threat as long as she lives. It’s a sickness in him with roots in King’s Landing.

Worse is the feeling that he’s not worthy of Brienne until the threat is gone.

And could he ever tell her that?


End file.
